Saying Goodbye
by JellyBean30
Summary: Dark, angsty fic about the death of House's parents. HouseWilson friendship. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This fic started as an entry for a scene writing contest on another site. The scene was for a guest appearance by Stephen Fry on House. The winning entry (in fact every entry except mine) went for comedy. But you guys know me, I went for the drama. Anyway, although it didn't win I was encouraged to continue it, so I have. **

**_Saying Goodbye_**

House stood at the pharmacy counter, impatiently waiting for his Vicodin. He noticed the tall man in military dress entering the lobby, but was distracted by the arrival of his prescription. Popping a pill in his mouth and turning, he was startled to find himself face to face with the vaguely familiar man.

"Greg?" the man addressed him. House frowned; he knew this man, but from where? "Or do you still go by PITA?"

Instantly, House's mind flashed back to the rock-climbing incident he'd just been telling Wilson about. William, once a scrappy lad of fifteen and now a decorated Marine, had been House's best friend while stationed with his parents in Japan.

They weren't supposed to be rock-climbing. But the nickname PITA, an acronym for Pain in the Ass, hadn't been bestowed upon him without cause. Rebellious teenagers were a dime a dozen on military bases, but House's often frightening intellect, insatiable curiosity and endless boredom landed him in more spectacular trouble than most of his peers.

William, a well-mannered, obedient, industrious young man had been an odd companion for young House, but a strange sort of friendship developed regardless. House's father approved immediately, hoping William would be a good influence on House. In perhaps predictable fashion, this was hardly the case. In fact, several months into their alliance, William had been the one to suggest the rock-climbing trip. House had been in charge of getting away with it.

House hadn't intended for them to get caught. And certainly, he had never intended to get caught rushing an unconscious and bleeding William to the nearest hospital. House remembered watching the rock slip from William's grasp and his own desperate lunge to catch him. He also remembered the beating he'd gotten from his father that night, quite possibly the worst of his life.

"William," House said hoarsely, only now noticing the two MPs flanking him. He tried to crack wise, but he'd seen this formation too many times before.

"Your parents were touring the base where I was just stationed while on their way back from a trip to Italy. There was an accident," William paused and House nodded, knowing exactly what was coming next. "I'm sorry, Greg. They're both dead."

* * *

House stood over his desk, rifling aimlessly through the papers scattered across its surface. William had taken care of the arrangements to have his parents' bodies flown back to the States and contacted their attorney about the funeral services. Really, there was nothing for House to do but have his black suit pressed. William informed him that his mother had requested he speak at the funeral and he'd nodded, not trusting his voice and determined that nobody know what was going on.

Frustrated at his inability to find what he was looking for, although if asked he wouldn't have been able to say precisely what that was, House abruptly grabbed his cane and swept the desk top clean. His red and gray tennis ball rolled lazily across the floor, coming to rest between the glossy tips of Wilson's leather shoes.

"Clinic that bad?" Wilson asked.

"Not in the mood," House replied tensely. He rested the whitened knuckles of his clenched fists on the now bare desk and hung his head low.

"What happened?" Wilson asked with concern.

"Seriously, not in the mood. Go play twenty questions with Chase, you'll win," House said, the words typical but not the tone.

"House, you can talk to me about whatever is bothering you," Wilson attempted.

"Right now, you're bothering me," House deflected Wilson's concern. He wasn't ready. He lifted his head and met Wilson's gaze. "If you want to remain my friend, leave now."

Wilson studied him for a moment and then nodded. Whatever House was going through, he would talk about when he was ready and not before. Wilson could only hope House would be ready to talk before he was ready to swallow an entire bottle of Vicodin.

"I'll be next door all day," Wilson said as he backed out of the office.

Disgusted with himself for letting his feelings get the best of him, and annoyed with Wilson for having the timing to catch him, House dropped into his chair and leaned back. He swallowed two Vicodin, barely even aware he was doing it, and closed his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

House walked into Cuddy's office, unannounced and without knocking, and laid his cane across her desk. Cuddies, now immune to his antics, finished the phone call she'd been making and then looked at him with her patented 'I'm indulging you' look.

"Need a few days off," House said.

"Why?" Cuddy asked.

"Spring break," House announced. "Girls Gone Wild is filming in Miami. Gotta be there."

"Forget it," Cuddy replied and turned back to her paper work. Indulging his proclivity for barging in was one thing, granting time off work for no legitimate reason was quite another. House got out of working enough around the clinic as it was.

"I have to go to a funeral. It's in upstate New York. I need a few days off," House said, trying to keep his voice flat.

"Who do you know in upstate New York that you'd care enough to …" Cuddy's voice trailed off as she realized what must have happened. "What happened?"

"Jeep accident in Italy touring a new base," House replied, swinging his eyes to the ceiling. He knew Cuddy would figure it out, and that now he'd have to accept her sympathies.

"How's your mom taking it?" Cuddy asked as she stood from her chair and walked around the desk toward him.

"Fine, I imagine, since she's gone too," House said, still staring at the ceiling. He'd said gone, unable to make the word dead cross his lips. _Coward_, he thought to himself. That was enough like what his father might have said to choke off any tears that threatened. House lowered his head and met Cuddy's eyes.

"Both of them?" Cuddy exhaled. "Oh House, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Can I have the time off?" House asked, now anxious to get out before she started crying.

"Of course. Take as much time as you need," Cuddy offered. She stepped closer, but House had anticipated this and stepped back. Not so quickly as to hurt her feelings, but enough to let her know he wasn't ready for this.

"Thanks," House said, more or less in Cuddy's direction. He limped out of the office, leaving a teary-eyed administrator behind.

* * *

"Hey," Wilson said quietly as he stepped onto the balcony, where House was currently avoiding the world. Based solely on the tone of that 'hey', House knew Wilson knew.

"You talked to Cuddy," House said.

"Yeah," Wilson said. He wanted to express his sympathies, but knew House would only reject them and then mock him for it.

"I have to speak at the funeral," House told Wilson, his eyes carefully trained on a spot far on the horizon so as to avoid even accidental eye contact.

"What are you going to say?" Wilson asked him. Wilson was aware of House's rocky relationship with his father. Not the specifics, for it was just one of the many things House wouldn't deign to talk about, but Wilson had the idea. He was concerned that House would say something at the funeral that he'd only regret later.

"Don't know," House replied. "I doubt any of the mourners want my honest opinion of my father."

"You're probably right. So why do it?" Wilson asked.

"It was my mother's last request," House said, now angling his body slightly away from Wilson. Even saying 'last request' made House want to vomit.

"Wow," Wilson breathed. House nodded. "Then … I think you should say what she would have wanted to hear."

"Yeah," House said quietly. Luckily his years of friendship with Wilson had allowed them to reach a level where they could discuss something without having to go through all the 'social niceties' that House so reviled.

"I can take a few days," Wilson said, "if you want some company."

House shook his head. He wasn't sure how he was going to manage keeping himself together. At least the funeral would be mostly people he didn't know or would likely never see again. There would be no need to keep up pretenses there. Wilson already knew more than House was comfortable with.

Wilson nodded at House's dissent; he'd expected as much. He decided to clear his calendar for the next few days, just in case. He turned back toward his office.

"Wilson," House called. Wilson stopped and half-turned, knowing his full attention wasn't really desired. "Thanks." Wilson nodded again and left House where he had found him.


	3. Chapter 3

House stepped into his office to find all three of his fellows waiting for him. Already exhausted from the emotional drain he was suppressing, House was in no mood to deal with whatever drama they had come to lie at his feet.

"I'm going to be out of town for a few days. Take some time off. Start now," House said to them as he slid into his desk chair and propped his feet up on the desk. He hoped they would leave quickly and he could catch a little nap. His eyes kept watering, a sure sign he was over-tired. Certainly there was no other reason for this suspicious moisture, or so he told himself.

The three fellows looked at each other uncertainly. House was at the best of times unpredictable. At the worst of times monstrous might be an understatement. This wouldn't be the first time he'd told them to take time off when in fact they had a patient, or conversely ordered a barrage of tests on a patient with no symptoms. Unsure, they waited.

"Seriously, I'm leaving in the morning. Cuddy'll never assign you a case when I'm not here. Take some time off. Amuse yourselves. Cameron, if you're looking to get high again I'm sure Foreman knows somebody," House said, hoping this would be rude enough to clear them out.

Foreman made a frustrated face and decided to take House's advice. He turned and walked out without at word. Chase, sensing that House was only getting started on them, followed Foreman's example. They could always check with Cuddy whether House was serious and not have to be subjected to any further abuse. Chase jerked his head at Cameron, but she hesitated.

Cameron had heard from Wilson about House's Christmas Eve overdose. She knew House was being cruel intentionally because he was trying to push them away. And even though she hated herself for it, she worried. As per his usual, when a normal person needed someone the most was when House pushed away the hardest.

"House, is there anything I can …" Cameron began, but was interrupted before she could finish.

"I don't need you to put a band-aid on it and kiss it all better, Cameron," House said bluntly.

Cameron only nodded. She told herself as she left his office that he knew what was best for him, but even as she thought it her feet took her in the direction of Wilson's office.

* * *

Cameron sighed heavily as she sat at her desk, the research for the article she had intended to work on abandoned. She had spoken to Wilson, and she knew nothing. Whatever it was must be incredible serious and personal, because Wilson was normally happy to have someone else keeping tabs on House's moods and Vicodin intake. He knew what it was, Cameron was sure of that, but he wasn't talking.

Just as Cameron had immersed herself in her research again, a knock at the conference room door interrupted her. She looked up to see a very tall, slightly older man, maybe House's age, in smart military dress. Cameron wondered if he had anything to do with whatever was bothering House.

"Excuse me," the man said with a very faint British accent. "Do you know where I could find Dr. House?"

"I'm sorry; Dr. House has already gone home for the night. He'll be out for a few days on a personal matter. I'm Dr. Cameron, can I help you?" Cameron stood up from behind the desk, feeling it was somehow impolite to address this man while sitting.

"Lt. Col. William Garrett," he stepped into the room and offered Cameron his hand, which she shook. "I have some information for Dr. House," he said. "About his parents' funeral services. I have to catch a transport in twenty minutes and I really need to make sure he gets this. Could you contact him?"

"His parents' funeral services?" Cameron said softly. No wonder House didn't want them to know what was going on; this was unbelievable. Parents, plural?

"I'm sorry. When you said he'd be out on a personal matter I assumed you knew. His parents were killed in a Jeep accident, I'm afraid." Lt. Col. Garrett looked at his watch. "I really must go to catch that transport. Can you see that he gets this information? I'm sure he would feel awful if he missed his mother's funeral."

Cameron took the papers he extended and nodded. She wasn't sure what to say. It wasn't until moments later she realized what she had done. Now she knew what House was hiding and she was going to have to talk to him. Damn.


	4. Chapter 4

"House?" Cameron called as she knocked on his door. She really had not wanted to come over here. She knew full well that the last thing he would want was a face-to-face conversation about how she found out about his parents. But she'd called his home number and his cell phone, both with no answer and no voice mail. She tried calling Wilson and found that his home number had been disconnected. She tried his cell, but all she got was a recording that the caller was out of the area.

"House?" Cameron called again, a little louder. She figured the best thing to do was briefly offer her sympathies, apologize for finding out, give him the information and get the hell out. This would probably be the longest they'd spoken since his cancer scheme.

"Hou…" the door was jerked open before her and Cameron gasped. House stood, clad in sweat pants a t-shirt, leaning heavily on his cane. If Cameron had been a betting woman, she would have laid money on the redness in his eyes being evidence of tears, but it was nothing she would ever mention.

"Lt. Col. Garrett stopped by to see you after you left," Cameron said, and House dropped his head nearly to his chest. "I tried to call you and I tried to call Wilson but I couldn't get through. He left me some information about the funeral services." Cameron held the papers out before her and House took them roughly. "I'm sorry."

House nodded. He couldn't quite look at her. For weeks, all he'd seen in her eyes was disgust. It wasn't pleasant, but it had become familiar. He didn't want to see her pity now.

"Is that all?" House asked, wanting nothing but for her to leave before he couldn't stop the tears again.

"Can I do anything for you?" Cameron asked, cursing herself for not sticking to her plan. "I mean, travel arrangements or …"

"It's only upstate New York. I'll drive," House told her. He chanced to lift his eyes and caught hers. For those few seconds, he could almost have believed that she really cared about him, and not just about his leg and his misery. Almost.

Cameron just nodded, no longer trusting her voice to speak. Those few seconds of eye contact had been nearly enough to break her heart. He was in so much pain, more pain than Cameron had ever seen in him even when his leg was at its worst. She knew he'd only tear her apart if she offered anything more.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, all she could manage without letting a tear escape for him.

* * *

Mid-morning the following day, House was wheeling a mid-sized suitcase out his front door. He had a long drive in front of him, and he knew he'd need frequent stops to rest his leg. He could only be grateful that his parents had settled nearby when his father finally retired. At least he wouldn't have to fly.

Before House had reached the curb, a silver car pulled up alongside him and stopped. House frowned at the driver as he got out. He didn't want to go alone, but he also didn't want any company. It looked like he was getting some anyway.

"That all?" Wilson asked, taking the suitcase from House and walking toward the trunk of his car. He opened the trunk and put the suitcase inside, where House noticed two others. House stood silently on the sidewalk, waiting for some explanation. "Road trip," Wilson said.

Wilson slid back into the driver's seat and waited. He watched from the interior of the car while House debated whether or not to accept Wilson's help. Under most circumstances, Wilson would honk the horn and shout for him to get in the damn car already, but these were not most circumstances. Wilson didn't want to push House completely away, but he knew deep down that House should not do this alone.

Finally, House got in the car. Wilson said nothing, merely buckled his seatbelt and checked his mirrors before pulling out into traffic. House looked out the passenger window as he popped a couple of Vicodin in his mouth. He was thankful for Wilson's company, although he would never admit it. At least Wilson knew the rules. Come to think of it, Wilson might be helpful in avoiding some of his more annoying and distant relatives.

"You realize this is only going to prove to them that we're gay," House said finally. He was referring to the fact that he'd attended a family wedding with Wilson once. It was after Stacey left, and before House had fully recovered from the infarction. Traveling alone was out of the question and his mother had begged him to go. He and Wilson had made quite the splash with House's family.

"Well," Wilson said dryly, "this is the longest relationship I've ever had."

"And I am the prettiest," House said, easily slipping into the rhythm that he and Wilson shared.

"Naturally," Wilson said. He would rather have talked about how House was dealing with all this, but he knew this _was_ how House was dealing with all this. Get through the actions required and then spend a year or so thinking it over and brooding about it. Then maybe he'd be ready to talk about it. That was fine with Wilson. If it took five years, like it had when Stacey left, Wilson would be there.


	5. Chapter 5

Cameron hesitated slightly before knocking on Dr. Cuddy's office door. She figured she already knew the answer to her question, but she still felt obligated to ask it. Cuddy called for her to enter and Cameron walked in, taking a seat in front of Cuddy's desk and nervously bouncing her feet.

"What's on your mind, Cameron?" Cuddy asked.

"Dr. Cuddy, I … I found out about House's parents," Cameron said. Cuddy groaned; this was not going to end well. "I didn't mean to. Lt. Col Garrett came to House's office to drop off the information about the services. He had to leave and he asked me to give it to House. He thought I already knew so he mentioned it."

"And now House is, what, mad at you?" Cuddy asked. She didn't see how Cameron could have avoided what happened. She could, however, see how House might react. She hoped she wasn't going to have to get personnel involved in another hiring/firing fiasco.

"No. Well, probably yes but that's not why I'm here," Cameron paused. "Obviously, House didn't want us to know. But now that I do, I feel like it's … disrespectful somehow for none of us to go the funeral."

Cuddy sighed. She could certainly sympathize with Cameron there. Cuddy herself had been struggling with whether or not to try and get some information out of Wilson so she could attend the funeral. She wasn't just House's boss, she was his friend, or she used to be, and she too felt a certain duty to attend.

"I mean," Cameron continued, "I'm sure he'd only make fun of me, but my parents taught me that when there's a death in the family of someone you know that you go and pay your respects. I know House and I aren't exactly friends, but we've worked together everyday for years and it just feels … wrong not to go. Doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does," Cuddy agreed. Then she sighed. "When he sees us, I'm sure he'll make us regret coming. But I have enough things on my guilty conscience, especially when it comes to House. When should we leave?"

"What about Chase and Foreman?" Cameron asked Cuddy.

"They're welcome too, but Cameron …" Cuddy said to her as Cameron rose to leave, "don't be surprised if they don't want to come."

* * *

"Forget it," Foreman said, staring across the conference room table at Cameron like she was crazy. "You want us to leave today, drive all night to upstate New York, and catch barely a few hours of sleep to go to a funeral for House's parents? The man couldn't even be bothered to tell us they passed away. I'd say that's a pretty clear indication he doesn't want us there."

"So because he's an insensitive clod we should be too?" Cameron asked. She looked to Chase for support, but he shook his head. "Foreman, if it were your parents, wouldn't you appreciate our being there?"

"Yes, _I _would. But I'm not House. He's not like other people, Cameron. He'll probably be annoyed that we intruded on his personal life and make us miserable for weeks, maybe months."

"Foreman, both of his parents just died. He's going to make us miserable for months anyway. I, for one, would rather be miserable with a clear conscience that I did the right thing," Cameron argued.

"Do you think House will see it as the right thing?" Foreman countered.

"No, I don't," Cameron said. "But my opinion of myself isn't solely based on House, despite what you seem to think. _I_ think it's the right thing."

Foreman just shook his head. He didn't disagree with Cameron, really. In fact, he could practically hear his father's voice telling him that wasn't how he was raised. But the fact was, when it came to House the regular rules just didn't apply. You couldn't base your actions on how a normal person would react, because House wasn't normal.

"I'll go with you Cameron," Chase said. He'd been quiet during the entire exchange. "I couldn't go to my dad's funeral, but I had a mass said at my local church. Nobody came."

"Chase, why didn't you tell us? I would have come," Cameron said softly. She'd never actually heard him talk about his father's death. In fact, they'd only found out months later during a disciplinary hearing that his father had passed away at all.

"I didn't want anyone to know. But now, I wish I had told you guys. Keeping a secret like that is tiring, and I made it a lot harder by keeping it to myself. I thought it was best then, but I was wrong. House is too. He'll never admit it, but it will be easier on him if he doesn't have to pretend around us. So, I'll go with you Cameron," Chase said.

"Fine," Foreman groaned. "What time do we leave?"


	6. Chapter 6

House and Wilson arrived in the late evening at House's parents' place. They hadn't lived there long, so fortunately for House the quaint two-bedroom cape didn't hold a lot of memories for him. In fact, House had only been here a handful of times. He and Wilson rolled their suitcases onto the back porch and left them there.

Memories or not, House paused for a minute once he was inside the door. Knowing something intellectually and feeling it are two different things. He'd known that his mother would not be here to greet him, but that didn't make her absence any easier. Wilson could tell this was having an effect on House and waited quietly for him to either confront it or push it aside.

House stood in the kitchen with his head hung low and began tapping his cane on the floor. He let his cheeks puff momentarily before blowing out a breath and then pursing his lips. Sure he wasn't going to cry, yet, he stepped further into the house to show Wilson around.

Passing through the kitchen and into the hallway, he glanced quickly into the guest bedroom/office to the left. Walking past it he used his cane to push open a door on his right and nodded in that direction. Wilson looked around the corner and took in the small, green-tiled bathroom. The passed an archway on the left that led into the living room, but House didn't even glance in that direction as he came to the final door in the hall.

This was the door to his parent's bedroom, and it was closed. Their bedroom door had always been closed, no matter where they lived. House had never known it to be open. When he was a child, even when he was sick in the middle of the night, he was still expected to knock on that door and wait for his mother to open it and come out to him. He believed he could count on one hand the number of times he'd ever been in his parents' bedroom, in any house they lived in.

"You sleep in there," House said without even opening the door.

"I can sleep on the couch," Wilson offered, feeling more than a little uncomfortable sleeping in House's deceased parents' bed. House shook his head. He couldn't explain it, but he needed somebody to be behind that door at night.

"Just make sure you close the door," House said, and he retreated into the guest bedroom, closing the door behind him and leaving a very unsure Wilson standing in the hall.

* * *

Morning came far too early and far too brightly for House's taste. He wasn't a morning person anyway, but this morning was especially loathsome. He glanced at the travel alarm-clock he'd placed on the table beside the pull-out couch and groaned. It was barely five o'clock. House would have been happy, or least content, to stay in bed for the day, but his leg had other ideas. Swinging them over the side of the bed, he reached for his cane and stood up slowly. Limping across the room, he took his Vicodin bottle from the pocket of his jacket, strewn carelessly over the desk chair, and swallowed two.

As he contemplated whether or not he could actually go back to bed, he heard the click of a spoon against the side of a coffee mug. Wilson was awake. House knew he'd need more than a few cups of coffee to prepare himself for what he had to do today, so he opened the door and went into the kitchen. Wilson looked up from his seat at the kitchen table as House sat across from him.

Wilson stood and took down a second mug from the rack on the wall and poured House a cup of coffee. He'd done as House had asked and spent the night in John and Blythe's room with the door closed. Wilson couldn't have said why it was so important to House, but this was not the time to question anything reasonable that House wanted. Placing the coffee on the table in front of House, Wilson returned to his seat and stared into his own coffee.

"Sorry if I woke you," Wilson remarked.

"Leg woke me," House grumbled. It was probably just as well that it had. The services were scheduled for nine, and House still had no idea what he was going to say. He hadn't actually given it much thought; the idea of preparing a speech was distasteful enough but writing a eulogy for his mother and father was vile.

"I can iron your things if you'll show me where," Wilson offered. Sleeping in that bedroom had been hard enough, but randomly poking through the house was just out of the question. Wilson glanced around the kitchen, thinking how much it reminded him of Blythe. The walls were a soft green color; the cabinets and floors a dark, rich wood. It was bright, but not overly so, the softness of the walls only serving to offset the wood's hue. Homey, but strong. Just like Blythe.

"What are you going to say?" Wilson asked. He knew House didn't want to talk about this; House wouldn't want to talk about any of this. But he also knew his friend. House wouldn't ask for help, even when it was too late. House also wouldn't want to disregard his mother's wish that he speak at the funeral. It was a delicate balancing act, and let's face it, balancing acts are hard for a guy with a bum leg.

House shook his head that he didn't know. He couldn't imagine what he could possibly say. He could only hope something would come to him before it was too late.


	7. Chapter 7

House sat in the chapel and let his mind wander. He'd been wool-gathering in services since his childhood; it seemed hypocritical to start paying attention now. Besides, he knew Wilson would let him know when it was his time to speak.

His wandering mind, however, would insist on imagining what his parents looked like inside their closed caskets. The doctor in him couldn't help it; he wanted a catalogue of each and every injury. The son, however, was perfectly content to never know. For the moment, the son was winning out. But just barely.

Marshalling his thoughts, House cast his eyes around the chapel, taking in the faces around him. There was his Aunt Sarah, looking as much like a dried out turkey as any of her Christmas dinners ever had. Next to her was her son, his cousin, David, David's insufferable wife Lenore and their daughter, Cathy, Cassie, Candice? Whatever. House hadn't spoken to them in easily five years. In fact, the last time had probably been at that horrid wedding his mother had begged him to attend. A few other, more distant relatives, who House recognized from his mother's photo albums, peopled the rows behind Aunt Sarah and her brood. The next several rows were filled with a myriad of Marine officers and their wives, not more than one or two of whom looked even vaguely familiar to House.

In the very last row, looking supremely uncomfortable, House spotted Cameron. House wondered briefly why she looked so ill at ease. Was it her proximity to Chase, seated beside her? Perhaps their little arrangement had finally gone sour, as House had known it would. Was it her presence in a chapel? That, House could understand. Or was she afraid how he'd react to their presence? Too many possibilities and House let it go, for the moment. He could always question her about it later. Or not. Chase sat stiffly, and was trying overly hard to look unemotional. Thinking of Rowan, House surmised.

Next to Chase was Foreman. House was more than a little surprised to see him there. After his cancer scheme, Foreman had become the most disinterested in any and all things House. He'd always had the least emotional attachment to him anyway, but whatever sympathy for or loyalty to House Foreman had harbored vanished after that particular stunt. Finally, there was Cuddy, crying and dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Besides Wilson, Cuddy was the only one to have met House's parents more than once. She had, in fact, spent a weekend with the Houses during their brief fling in college. Like most people, she had been very fond of Blythe.

House craned his neck to see the very back of the chapel and was stunned to catch sight of Mark and Stacey Warner. Before his mind could even being to work on how she'd heard and why they'd shown up, Wilson was elbowing House in the ribs. It was time for him to speak.

* * *

House limped to the podium and looked uncomfortably over the crowd. He hooked his cane on the side of the podium and smoothed one hand down his tie. He had two trains of thought prepared for his eulogy. The one that lambasted his father for all the years of abuse he'd doled out for infractions real and imaginary, the one that revealed the iron fist with which he'd ruled not only House but Blythe as well, the one that berated God for granting him such a father and then for irony's sake making Greg just like him, the one that lamented the joy he had never seen in his mother's eyes and the pain she had always carried in her heart. The one he would never give.

The second was short and wretched, as much a lie as anything he'd ever said. The one that praised his father's loyalty and honesty, the one that marveled at their happy marriage, the one that reconciled their loss with the knowledge they were together in a better place. The one he couldn't force past his lips.

Murmurs of sympathy rippled through his audience, and House grimaced. He knew what they were thinking; that in his grief he couldn't speak. It angered him beyond all reason. House hitched in a deep breath, chapel be damned, and opened his mouth to pour out the tirade that had been playing in his mind for days when his eyes met Wilson's. _Then I think you should say what she would have wanted to hear; _Wilson's words echoed in House's heart and as much as he hated his father he loved his mother too much to disregard her final request.

"My father wasn't an easy man to get along with," House said, settling for something between the two speeches he'd mentally prepared. "He was strict and closed-minded and swift to discipline." Several attendees shifted uneasily in their seats. "But he was also honest, courageous, fiercely loyal and he loved my mother. My mother …" House paused and took another deep breath. This was even harder than he'd thought. "My mother had the patience of a saint, if you believe in that sort of thing. I'm not sure I do. But if sometimes life makes me think I don't believe it, then she's reason why I'm still not sure."

House grabbed his cane from the podium and limped back to sit beside Wilson. A few whispers reached his ears, but no words were discernable. House closed his eyes while his hand worked through his pocket for his Vicodin. He was dismayed to find his hands shaking. He looked at the pill resting in his palm like it was the only thing in the world. There was one more thing his mother had wanted. She'd never asked him, never said that she wished he would give them up. She hadn't needed to; he'd known every time they spoke from the worry in her voice and the questions about his leg and health. He'd given her his speech, could he give her that too?

Wilson sat staring straight ahead; he didn't want to meet House's eyes. Wilson had seen the anger in House's eyes and hoped he could quell it before House did something he would later regret. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been proud of his friend; he'd stayed true to himself and his mother, not an easy task. He turned his head and watched House watching his Vicodin and began to wonder if his friend didn't have one more surprise for him.

The shuffling of feet roused House and Wilson from their respective thoughts as the congregation stood around them. The service was ended. It was time to say goodbye.


	8. Chapter 8

Wilson stood back from the group gathered around the gravesite as the minister's voice intoned a prayer. He'd been standing next to House, who had been provided a chair to sit in, but tears kept coming to his eyes and House had finally glared at him. Wilson took the hint and moved off quietly.

Before long Lt. Col. Garrett was standing beside Wilson. Physically different, one large and imposing, the other slender and almost effeminate, the two men each conveyed an inner strength evident to all those around them.

"His dad wasn't all bad you know," Garret said unprompted, staring straight ahead.

"Blythe wouldn't have loved him if he was," Wilson replied. Garrett nodded. "You're the rock-climbing guy." It wasn't a question but Garrett confirmed with a nod. "You're the only friend he's ever talked to me about."

"I may be the only other friend he's ever had," Garrett said and it was Wilson's turn to nod. "You're Wilson."

"How did you…" Wilson began.

"Blythe and John kept in touch, even though Greg didn't. When we were younger, John wanted me to be a good influence on him," Garrett said. "He said the same thing about you."

"You can't always get what you want," Wilson said. But even as the words came out of his mouth he thought about what he had been sure House was going to say at the funeral service, and what he hoped House was deciding about his addiction.

"We never talked much after that accident. I always figured he blamed me for getting hurt and getting him into trouble with his father," Garrett told Wilson. "But now, I think I was just another reminder that he wasn't the son his father wanted." There was a long pause. "I think his father reminded him enough as it was."

"Yeah," Wilson said, turning over this new information in his mind. He wondered if he'd ever have all the pieces to the puzzle, and then smiled to himself as he realized what a House thing that was to think. Wilson watched as the minister closed his bible. "Service is over."

* * *

House sat at the gravesite, eyes squinted against the brilliant sunlight that mocked his sorrow. He watched as his parents' friends and relatives passed him to place a flower on or trail a hand across the caskets. He shifted uncomfortably, aching to rip off his tie and loosen his collar. Wilson used too much starch. The mahogany wood and brass fixtures glinted, blinding him momentarily as he moved.

House watched as Mark and Stacey stepped forward and laid their roses on his mother's casket. Mark nodded as he passed House. Stacey paused for the briefest of seconds. Words waited to be spoken. The moment passed, and Stacey grazed her fingers over his shoulder as she passed, a silent compromise between the condolence she wanted to offer and the avoidance he craved.

Cameron, Foreman and Chase passed next. Foreman dropped his rose and filed past House without a glance. He'd paid his respects and his duty was done. He didn't spare House a thought. Chase followed him, and House didn't miss the mumbled prayer as Chase's rose dropped atop its companions. Chase nodded at House as he passed as well. There would be no hug today. Cameron placed her rose gently and walked slowly away. She paused at House's side and he could feel her struggle not to embrace him. She, too, settled for something in the middle and lightly squeezed his shoulder. He didn't look at her, and the similarity to his gesture in the hospital chapel did not go unnoticed by either of them.

Cuddy approached last and placed her rose. She kissed her fingertips and pressed them against Blythe's casket as a single tear rolled down her cheek. Braver than any other, Cuddy stopped and brushed her lips against House's cheek. She walked away quickly, knowing she'd stepped over the line he'd drawn. House took a shaky breath. Now only he and Wilson remained.

House stood and placed the folded flag that had rested in his lap on his seat. Not until the moment that flag had been handed to him had he allowed himself to feel anything. The flag was just so final; there was no denying the constriction in his chest when he accepted it. He stepped forward and reached out his free hand to trail over his mother's new home. Just like the bedroom door, it was closed to him. Just like the bedroom door, part of him longed to fling it open and find sanctuary with her. And just like the bedroom door, he would not. Without so much as a backward glance at his father's casket, House turned and limped toward Wilson.

"Let's roll," he said as he passed, but his voice was not as strong and sure as he would have liked. Wilson only nodded. He picked up the flag from House's chair and followed his friend.


	9. Chapter 9

Epilogue

The movers waited for Wilson to let them know the bedroom was ready. Walking softly down the hall, he found House perched uneasily on the edge of the bed. His knuckles were white with the pressure House was exerting on his cane's handle.

"They're ready," he said from the doorway. House nodded. He looked around the room; he wasn't quite ready yet.

"You know when I was little, my mother used to let me in their room sometimes when my dad was away. I used to curl up on the bed and wish he'd never come home," House said. Wilson said nothing. House rarely spoke candidly and Wilson almost didn't breath, in case the noise should roust him from this reverie. He needn't have bothered. House stood and limped out. When he was two steps past Wilson he stopped. Wilson waited, his sixth sense telling him House had more to reveal. "I'd put up with him another twenty years if it meant she'd come home too."

* * *

At House's request, Wilson had driven them to the cemetery one last time before they began their trip home. Wilson waited in the car as he watched House limp his way through the mud to the two fresh mounds of dirt. He stood there a long time without moving, long enough that Wilson actually became concerned about his leg giving out on him. Just when Wilson was about ready to get out of the car, he saw House reach into the pocket of his blazer and pull out a familiar brown bottle. The action was so normal, so intrinsically House that Wilson almost looked away. That sixth sense tingled again, though, and Wilson watched in something like awe when House bent over and placed the bottle at the base of his mother's headstone.

House turned abruptly and walked back to the car. He eased into the passenger seat and closed the door. Resting his head against the closed window, he spoke quietly. They were words that Wilson had hoped to hear from his a thousand times.

"We've got a long road ahead of us," House said. Wilson knew he didn't just mean the drive and he sincerely hoped that House was serious this time.

"We'll manage," Wilson said as he put the car in gear and began to drive out of the cemetery.


End file.
